Virtue
by irisis
Summary: Written for the first Callen's Corner NCISLA Magazine Challenge, which was to write a short story based on the missing two hours in the Season 4 episode 'Purity'. Male pride can be a weakness, yet indispensable.


Written for the first Callen's Corner NCISLA Magazine Challenge, which was to write a short story based on the missing two hours in the Season 4 episode 'Purity'. The story begins immediately after Sam discovers Callen somewhat the worse for wear after injecting the Hydroxyo- C and ends moments before our heroes tool up in the armoury room.

* * *

He was in a moving vehicle, and he was still in the storeroom. He was fading in and out of sleep, a cool hand on his clammy forehead, yet he was violently struggling for control of the last tatters of consciousness. He was allowing Kensi to manoeuvre him onto his side and place an ice chip in his mouth, but also felt the back of his throat be scored by his lunchtime burrito and stomach lining as he shook violently on hands and knees.

For the initial thirty minutes following his rescue Callen was all of these things as his oxygen starved brain fought to repair the acute chemical damage inflicted upon it. He struggled to make sense of his surroundings; listened in silence as Sam cautioned that his condition would deteriorate before it improved.

Finally the car pulled to a stop and the rear left door was pulled ajar. Callen's raw senses were assailed by a flood of light and the faint scent of burnt rubber. Time ceased to shift, the fog of confusion began to lift and his mind was left sharp and clear save for the beginnings of what he suspected would be a migraine.

From his very first attempt at movement he knew with a grim surety that his body would not be so quick to repair itself. It took Sam and Deeks more than five minutes to assist him out of the car and across the parking lot, and every ounce of self control he possessed to hold his male pride in check and allow them to do so.

If he were to refuse their help, he would be face down in the dirt at this very moment. Or, worse: they would have assisted him despite his protestations, which would somehow have been more humiliating than what was happening now.

Callen was sandwiched between them and leaning heavily on both sets of shoulders, his legs shuffling slowly and unsteadily under what little weight he was bearing on them. He could see the alarmed looks Deeks was sending in Kensi's direction from the furthest corner of his eye and read them as clearly as a book: _He can hardly walk_, and:_ He needs a Doctor._

He would love nothing better than to prove Deeks wrong but was powerless to do so.

Callen looked down at the traitorous limbs, wishing he could make them cooperate with sheer will alone. As he did so he saw the flecks of vomit on the front of his t-shirt, felt the stiff dried sweat on the fabric under his arm pits. His cheeks burned in a shame which threatened to turn to anger.

Pulling away from the two taller men, Callen rested his bulk against the red brick beside the building's concealed entrance and attempted to catch his breath. "Give me a minute," he said, hunching over. _I won't have any one else see me like this. Weak and incapable_, he added, but only to himself.

Sensing Callen's obvious discomfort and desire for privacy, Kensi gently pulled her partner away by the arm and guided him through the entrance with a tight smile in Callen's direction. As soon as they were alone, Sam reached out and rested a firm hand on Callen's shoulder. Callen leaned into the contact and drew strength from it.

"You still sure brining you back here rather than to a hospital was the smart thing to do?" Sam asked quietly, and Callen was grateful that he'd had the foresight not to voice his doubt until Kensi and Deeks were out of earshot.

"Cluck, cluck," Callen replied in mock annoyance. Sam had always been a mother hen. "I told you. I'll be fine after a quick rest."

Sam said nothing for a few moments but scrutinised his partner closely. Callen was glad for the momentary silence, as was his growing headache. Just as he was beginning to feel somewhat steadier on his feet, Sam spoke.

"How long did it take you?"

Callen didn't need to ask him to clarify. "Two minutes, fifty-seven seconds."

He knew precisely how long it had taken to build up the courage to self-administer the Hydroxyo- C because he had given himself exactly three minutes to calm his breathing and steady his nerves enough to enable him to hold the damn thing. He'd had all but three of his remaining seconds left when he pierced the soft flesh of his lower arm with the cold, sharp instrument. If he hadn't been filled with so much adrenaline at the time, he had serious doubts over whether he would have met his self-imposed deadline. Or managed it at all.

Callen would have died an agonising, pointless death because as cruel luck would have it, clenching a fist and having his body pricked by a tiny sliver of metal was more terrifying than taking a bullet.

No doubt Sam had noticed that Callen had put as much distance between himself and the needle as was possible considering his condition once the thing was done.

By the time they reached the first aid room he had regained a considerable amount of control over his legs. The room itself reminded him of the storeroom back at the warehouse – airless, a heavy smell of disinfectant on every surface which made the inside of his wrists tingle in agitation. The only furniture was a low bed, pine coffee table, basic sink and medical cabinet. Given that he knew the astronomical cost needed to run OSP, the sparseness and simplicity surprised him.

"I better brief Hetty," Sam said once he had helped Callen settle on the bed. "I'll be back with something to make you feel better."

"A glass of that Dalmore 40 scotch Hetty has put away in the hidden draw we're not supposed to know about would go down nicely."

There was no response, and the door closed with a soft click. He closed his eyes and the drowsiness returned. He began to drift but the pain behind his eyes prevented him from becoming lost again.

He came to suddenly because of a tight, sharp discomfort around his right arm, unaware of how much time had passed. Consumed with panic, he convinced himself that he was having a heart attack and lay there dying.

A soothing, female sounding voice found him amidst the sea of panic and steered him towards composure. He deliberately slowed his breathing, ceased struggling, and his eyes focussed once again on his spartan environment. The pressure on his arm disappeared.

He still lay on the low cot, and a blood pressure cuff was sliding off his arm. He ripped it free in one angry, fluid motion and glared up and at the unperturbed face of Nell.

"Just following orders," she said, maddeningly calm. "Sorry to wake you. Your blood pressure is in your boots, you know. You're very dehydrated."

She outstretched her hand and there was a cup of water there. He ignored it.

"Nell, I don't need a nurse. I need an analyst." The words came out more aggressively than he had intended, but it was hard to hear himself think over the pounding in his temples, the rush of blood in his ears, the giddiness he was barely holding at bay. He took a deep breath.

"I need an analyst," he repeated, more calmly now, "I need her at her post, and I need her to find out where the cyanide is going to enter the city's water supply so I can stop it."

As he spoke she placed the plastic cup on the coffee table which separated them and her fingers met in front of her chest, meshed together and twisted. He had startled her.

"Got it," she said, head low and without meeting his eyes.

He was in no real shape for a pep talk. "The next words I want to hear out of your mouth are 'I think we've got something'."

The left side of her mouth curled up into a smile and she she raised open palms in front of her as if in surrender. She opened the door and exited through it without a backwards glance.

Alone again, he sat shakily and took the water. He pulled himself to his feet, swayed for a few moments as the blood rushed from his head. Once he felt able to he made his way slowly and deliberately to the medicine cabinet. Quickly locating some painkillers, he swallowed them automatically and turned his mind back to the present situation.

The building was a hub of activity – he could feel it through the walls. His people would be contacting utility companies and local law officials at this very moment.

"What are you doing?"

Kensi's voice. He looked around guiltily, then realised it was coming from the other side of the closed door and was much too faint to be directed at him.

"What? Nothing." Deeks – defensive.

"You were texting someone to warm them against drinking water," Kensi again, irate, her voice climbing octaves as well as volume.

"Oh, come on. I can't honestly be me the only one to think about it. What about you, Sam? You seriously haven't warned your wife?"

Sam's response, fainter than the other two voices, was immediate and entirely insincere. "Of course not. That would be grossly irresponsible; not to mention selfish."

The faint smile froze on Callen's mouth. He gingerly sat back down on the low bed and finished his water. A lot of things went through his mind, but particularly the little girl who often wore pigtails and called her Uncle Callen. There were thousands of innocents just like her out there right now going about their normal routine, entirely unaware of the danger they were in.

He was the best man to lead this team.

He was going to lead this team, and see this through to the bitter end.

As he made his way to the armoury room to tool up, Hetty attempted to bar his path. "And where do you think you're going?" She asked, her tone neutral.

He stepped around her, ignored the question and pre-empted her next one. "I'm fine."

He felt her eyes upon his back, but knew she saw nothing other than a fully capable and fit agent because, quite simply, he was that damn good. They all were, which was why he knew everything was going to be okay.

Swallowing back his growing nausea, he lengthened his stride and held his head higher.


End file.
